


Lines

by surrexi



Category: Doctor Who RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrexi/pseuds/surrexi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It occurs to her the tenth or eleventh time she confirms the story and tells the latest questioner that it’s because she doesn’t want the actor in her husband dissecting her performance, as she embellishes the lie with half-truths about her own insecurity, that it’s a damn good thing she never admitted to Laurence that there was an entire series of the show she’d be perfectly comfortable with him seeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lines

**Author's Note:**

> Written around June 2008 and posted to the billandteninch LJ community. Un-beta'd.

It’s only a matter of time before the press hears about that one, her possibly (probably?) ill-advised edict that Laurence isn’t allowed to watch her episodes of Doctor Who under any circumstances.  He tells his friends, who tell their friends, and so on, until one day it’s being reported in the Sun.  (She used to like the Sun, a long time ago, before she ever graced its pages.  She wonders how she was ever that young.)

It occurs to her the tenth or eleventh time she confirms the story and tells the latest questioner that it’s because she doesn’t want the actor in her husband dissecting her performance, as she embellishes the lie with half-truths about her own insecurity, that it’s a damn good thing she never admitted to Laurence that there was an entire series of the show she’d be perfectly comfortable with him seeing.

She doesn’t worry about what he’ll see in Billie’s eyes when Rose looks at Nine.

It’s Saturday evening, and she glances around surreptitiously before climbing the steps to David’s flat.  There are no tell-tale flashes of light in the distance, and as she knocks on his door she crosses her fingers and hopes she’s crossing this line unobserved.  She’s checking over her shoulder again when the door opens.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” he says, the burr of his accent wrapping around her like a warm coat.  She faces him and pretends her heart doesn’t skip a beat.  He hasn’t shaved and he’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.  He’s the best thing she’s seen all day.  She smiles, tilts her head, a wordless query.  “Didn’t think you were letting other actors watch your performances these days,” he elaborates.

She narrows her eyes at him and he holds his hands up, palms out in apology for lines crossed, stands aside to let her in.  She brushes past him, a quick kiss on his stubbly cheek.  He’s forgiven, of course he is.

“Wouldn’t want to break tradition,” she says as she walks back toward his living room.

He closes the door, follows her back.  She smiles at him knowingly when she sees the big bowl of popcorn, the blanket on the sofa, the telly already tuned to the proper station.  He knew she’d show, and she knows it.  She’d always had trouble letting go, and this was _theirs_.  He knew she wouldn’t let anything take it away.  There’s more than one kind of line, he thinks.

The music begins, and their names are together in the stars again.  She sits down on the sofa, arranges the blanket and picks up the popcorn.  She’s waiting for him to join her, like she always used to.

He watches from the doorway, remembers the old days of clasped hands, shared giggles, whispered kisses, and wonders where she’ll draw the line now.

He sits down beside her, she tosses the blanket across him as well, and he knows he’ll follow her across the line, no matter where it falls.


End file.
